


Say Goodbye

by undeadpsycho13



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: M/M, Post-The Maze Runner, Pre-The Maze Runner, The Death Cure, The Scorch Trials - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 09:04:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8483488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undeadpsycho13/pseuds/undeadpsycho13
Summary: There was only a few months age difference between the two, and yet their experiences were worlds apart, and their understanding of the world around them were on two ends of the spectrum.  And yet like two opposite poles of two magnets, an invisible force seemed to draw them towards each other.  At fourteen, about to be sent into the Maze, Minho closes his eyes and remembers the tinkling laughter that brightened his world, and Newt the sparkling obsidian eyes that he had grown to love.





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> sort of scenes i imagine would have happened before they got sent into the maze. sorry if it doesn't match the fever code, i've only ever read the first three books :(
> 
> also, the title is taken from the song say goodbye by green day ^_^

At the age of four, Newt was taken from his parents.

Taken for a test, the people from WICKED had explained, with a sickeningly sweet smile.  He would be returned in two weeks, they promised.

And so his parents brought Newt out to the door, packed in a small suitcase with some of his clothes, a photograph of their family, smiling at some vacation before the Flare bombarded the earth and left chaos and destruction in its wake, a toothbrush, and Newt’s most prized possession: his blue blanket.

They kissed him on the cheek, told him to listen to the people at WICKED, remember his manners, be nice to the other boys participating in the test, and then sent him away with a blessing and a loving _goodbye_.

They watched WICKEDs car drive him away into the distance, with the young boy in it eagerly waving goodbye, an adorable expression on his face.

Newt’s parents never saw him again.

They died as Cranks, minds screwed, chanting madly, manically,

“Where’s my little Newtie?”

 

 

* * *

 

When Minho was five, a group of people from WICKED snatched him away from his perfect life.

They came in at the dead of night, like burglars, except what they took were not jewels or money, no, they took his parents’ most treasured item from them, one they could not bear to live without: their son.

Minho’s whole family had been immune, and when WICKED first came a year ago, on pleasant terms, they had adamantly refused to let their child take part in this “test”.  Minho’s family had been rich, and so they could afford those large, Crank-proof houses stocked with piles of processed foods to get them through these dark days, enough, in fact, to last the three until the Crank died out, so that they would have been able to live anew.

If only that had been the case.

Minho had proven to be a diligent child, quick-witted with a strong physique, and so WICKED was determined to perform their little test on him.  So, in the dead of night, they had broken into the Crank-proof, but not human-proof, house and kidnapped the child.

Minho didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye, and only when WICKEDs vehicle had driven far away did he hear the screams in the distance, his parents calling out his name in distress.

In the end, Minho’s parents died.  

Not from the Flare, not of Crank attacks, not of starvation, but rather, heartbreak.

Heartbroken for their lost child.

 

* * *

 

 

Newt first arrived at the WICKED facility on high spirits, his four-year-old self happy to have been chosen for this test, because, he had been told, he was special.  He listened to everything the facilitators told him to do, was nice to the other boys, said his _pleases_ and _thank yous_.

As the days past, Newt started to miss his parents, and looked forward more and more towards the two week marker, the time that he had been told he could go home again.

But the two week marker came and passed, and then three, and then four, and Newt still was not able to go home.  He grew more and more introverted, refused to speak sentences longer than a few words to the others, sat alone while he ate.  And so, as time passed, the others started to forget his existence, simply ignored him.  Newt’s once vibrant golden hair faded into a dull straw color, his wide, caramel eyes into downcast muddy-brown.

Newt’s fifth birthday passed uneventfully, without the normal “Happy Birthday” sung by his mother or the cake baked by his father.  His only present on that day was, however, the best he would ever get, which would have made everything all worth it, if not for the shucked-up world: the arrival of a new boy.

Minho.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Minho first arrived at the WICKED facility distraught and screaming _bloody murder_ at the top of his lungs.  He had to be put into isolation for the first week or so until he could calm down.  

When he finally joined the others, he made a few friends, laughed with the boys, even met a brilliant blond that went by the name of Newt, but never did he forget the wrongs WICKED did to him and his family.  Never did he forget the soft curve of his mother’s smile, or a boisterous laughter his father barked out when he did something stupid, something that had been taken away from him forever.  Never did he forget the pained wails that emitted from the distance as he was driven away.  Never did he forget, and so he fought WICKED every step of the way, refusing to cooperate, messing with the others, causing chaos amongst the perfect order.

About three months after they placed him in the facility, Newt finally confessed to Minho that the people from WICKED had lied to him, that they would not be going home anytime soon.  And Minho, who had pretended in front of everyone else that all was fine, his face only darkened as he replied in a harsh whisper,

“I know.  I’ve known all along.”

 

* * *

 

Newt, still the innocent five year old he was, never understood why his Asian friend was so brooding all the time.

There was only a few months age difference between the two, and yet their experiences were worlds apart, and their understanding of the world around them were on two ends of the spectrum.  Even before the Flare, Newt’s family had been a middle class family that lived in the outskirts of London, whereas Minho’s one of the richest American families, living in the middle of Manhattan with a clear view of Central Park.  Minho had, to some extent, been spoiled, but also under strict discipline on a regular basis; Newt’s family could not afford much that he wanted as a child, yet was under looser control because his parents worked late into the night.  Growing up in a successful business-centric family, Minho had been taught to speak three different languages, play five different instruments, and do advanced arithmetic, and even simple algebra, at the young age of five.  Newt, on the other hand, did not have the resources to do so, and as a result could never do more than spell his name and 1+1.

And yet like two opposite poles of two magnets, an invisible force seemed to draw them towards each other.  At fourteen, about to be sent into the Maze, Minho closes his eyes and remembers the tinkling laughter that brightened his world, and Newt the sparkling obsidian eyes that he had grown to love.

With the ringing of what they would later know as the Box Alarm in the Glade, the Box slowly began its ascent, and with the ringing of the Box Alarm, their memories reluctantly seeped from their minds, like water from cupped palms.

So when they woke up, hands entwined, both were flustered and wondering what sort of coincidence it was that this happened during the time they were unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it was so short, i do have another 2000+ words in the story, but i can't make up my mind and so i keep on changing it so i just decided to post the first part. 
> 
> if you want the rest, just let me know; i'll post it as a second chapter XD
> 
> also, this is just random, but i was just thinking one day and was like: o wait, wicked gave the gladers their names right? so like, minho doesn't have to be korean he could be like chinese or japanese or whatever right? plz tell me ur thoughts on this, cause if there is a problem with my messed up logic i want to know. thx XD


	2. The Glade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I thought you were dead.” He hissed through his teeth, “I thought you were dead, and that you shuckin’ left me and ––”
> 
> His ranting was stopped by a finger to his lips and a mantra of I’m alright, I’m alive, I’m here.
> 
> It was then that Newt broke down.
> 
> But, like always, Minho was there to catch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy ^_^

Newt was the first Glader ever to catch a beetle blade.

He was not the fastest, but the most agile, and so it was him who won the contest. Bored out of their minds after repainting the Homestead and waiting for the paint to dry, the group of thirty or so boy had decided to attempt to catch the shiny silver robots.

Minho and George were the fastest, but they couldn’t turn fast enough, and crashed into bushes and walls, making a racket and, in the end, caught nothing. Newt, however, chased one into a dead end, and jumped at it, anticipating it’s moves and incapacitating it. They named the beetle blade Bob, because that was the only name they could agree on, and trapped Bob in a vine-woven cage, it a crude, hand drawn sign that read “ _Say Hi To Bob Everyone_!”.

Bob, unfortunately, escaped a few days later, but his memory was forever treasured amongst the original Gladers, until, of course, most of them died off.

 

* * *

 

When Newt supposedly fell off the wall, Minho knew better.

Those long curls stained with blood and lifeless eyes broke his heart, but not so much as the realisation that Newt didn’t just fall off the wall; he was trying to find a way out of the Maze through death. Throughout the whole period of time Newt was unconscious he stayed by the boy’s side, refusing to leave even to eat or sleep. And yet as soon as he showed signs of waking, the boy shot out of his chair and ran full speed towards the Deadheads, unable to face the other.

Unable to face the truth.

Later, Alby found him, curled up next to a grave, with the name _Nick_ carved into the soft wooden cross. Nick, who had been like a brother to Minho before. What had he been doing here? Seeking guidance from the dead? Seeking comfort from the dead? Neither option seemed too good.

Afterwards, neither of them ever talked about it. But it hung about them like a cloud of dust, hindering their vision, and blocking their views of each other. They both felt as though they talked through a shield of glass.

They both felt as though they didn’t know the other any more.

 

* * *

 

With the arrival of Thomas, came the arrival of new hope, and new worries.

A dead Griever had been found, something that had never, not once, ever occurred Not once. And so Minho and Alby took off, to investigate. Except they never came back. At noon, Newt started to grow worried. A few hours after that, he just wandered from Door to Door listlessly, not bothering to hide his anxiety anymore. Thomas joined him, but Newt barely noticed the other’s presence. And then finally, the Doors started to close.

With Minho and Alby trapped on the other side.

Dejected, trying not to cry, Newt limped away, couldn’t bear to watch the Doors close any longer. And yet, when he was almost to the Homestead, he heard a voice –– Tommy’s voice –– scream his name, and then,

“They’re coming! I can see them!”

Whirling around in shock, he tried his best to go back, but with his shucking leg, it was bloody hard. He could hear Minho’s voice now, weak with exhaustion, screaming deliriously about something getting someone referred to as “him”. Him? Alby? But then… who got him? A torrent of questions rushed through Newts head in a whirlwind, but the one that stood above all others was,

_Will they make it back in time?_

There was only a meter width between the two Doors, and Minho’s voice seemed so far away. They weren’t going to make it. Newt knew this, yet he still refused to believe, still clung onto that tiny thread of hope that they would. And then. And then. He saw Thomas running through the narrow gap, screamed,

“Don’t do it Tommy, don’t you bloody do it!”

But it was too late. He was always too late.  The Doors closed with a resounding bang, sealing the fate of three Gladers to their imminent death.

 

* * *

 

Newt, surrounded by the rest of the Gladers, had never felt so alone in his life.

His thoughts, his soul, his mind, every part of him save the physical body was trapped in the Maze with his two friends and… something more than a friend. What had Minho been to him? They had woken up lying next to each other, holding hands. That had to signify something, didn’t it? And yet with their wiped memories, nothing had ever been set in stone, nothing had ever been sure.

And then after, after Newt had felt something towards Minho, something he couldn’t really describe, not properly. It was a warm feeling, a bubbly feeling, maybe… love?

But now, now Minho was good as dead and Newt would never be able to tell him anything.

How had his life become so shucked up?

That night, none of the Gladers could sleep properly. Yes, people died a lot in the Maze. Yes, they had lost so many before Alby and Minho and Thomas. But never three all at once. Never two trying to save one. And it had been ages since they had lost original Gladers, two at that. Now, the only ones left were Newt and Frypan.

The only one who still wished, still dared to hope, was Chuck. But no one listened to him, they all brushed him off, treated him like nothing but a nuisance. After all, he had been the Greenie until Thomas had come, which had been but a few days ago. Newt would have felt bad for the boy, had he not been feeling the worst he possibly could at the moment, with no time for pitying others. And maybe, just maybe, a falsely optimistic part of him clung onto the hope that he was, they were, alive as well.

The entire Glade stood in front of the Doors that morning, waiting and wondering and hoping. And then finally, finally, the Doors started to slide open, inch by inch, until fully open.

There was no one there.

Even though he knew they were dead, had always known it, it felt like drowning all over again. Minho was dead, Alby was dead, Thomas was dead. Dead, deceased, gone. Gone, forever.

And then, light.

Movement flickered at the corner of the darkened pathway. And then Minho and Thomas appeared, dragged behind him a pale Alby.

While everyone rushed forwards to greet the three, Newt just stood there, as though shell-shocked. It was only when Minho appeared in his vision that he reacted –– by slapping him in the face.

“ _I thought you were dead._ ” He hissed through his teeth, “I thought you were dead, and that you shuckin’ left me and ––”

His ranting was stopped by a finger to his lips and a mantra of _I’m alright, I’m alive, I’m here_.

It was then that Newt broke down.

But, like always, Minho was there to catch him.

 

* * *

 

With the Doors not closing, the Gladers worked even more furiously than before, trying desperately to find a way out.

And then, one day, they did.

It was stupid, how they hadn’t thought of it earlier, with the Cliff being the only obvious way out. And yet, none of them really thought of the possibility, only that falling off the Cliff meant certain death. So here they were, fighting desperately against Grievers and in their minds screaming for Thomas and Teresa and Chuck to shucking hurry up.

And then it happened. And then Newt saw. Saw the Griever wielding a long curved blade that arched towards Minho in a motion that could not be stopped, that could not be avoided. He leapt in front of Minho, like one of those superheroes in movies he couldn’t remember, ready to take the blow for the other.

But the hit never landed.

The blade stopped just before slicing through Newts throat, drawing blood but not doing any real damage. Head spinning, he ignored all else and collapsed, the shock and trauma of losing so many people in the battle and his near-death experience and the fatigue of fighting an intense battle taking over his body.

Minho was there, Newt was vaguely aware, asking if he was alright and why he would do such a shucking stupid thing and if Newt died he would never forgive him. And then he felt something brush his lips, something that tasted like hope.

And that was the first time they kissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, that was the second chapter XD
> 
> hope u liked it, i'll be posting the third maybe next week (?) but its not done yet so no guarantees :)


	3. The Scorch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you don’t, I think he’ll kill himself. Can’t you see him? Can’t you see what he’s feeling?”
> 
> At the words kill himself, Minho’s face visibly darkened. Thomas, Thomas who had been in the Maze for less than two weeks, did not have the right to say such things. He did not have the right to predict one’s death. Though he knew it was irrational, Minho spun around and grabbed Thomas by his collar, like one of those cowboys in movies Minho couldn’t remember, and hissed through clenched teeth,
> 
> “Don’t talk about what you don’t know, Greenie.”
> 
> Their little ordeal attracted attention, obviously, and the Gladers stopped to see what the commotion was all about. Neither of the two involved in the fight seemed to have noticed. And then Minho felt a hand wrap around his wrist, a pleading sound awakening him from the haze of anger. 
> 
> Newt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is the third chapter, and as you can see i changed the status to four chapters, so there may be another called "paradise", just for some minewt fuff, but who knows... also, in the books it says the flare is airborne, but to accomodate newt living, the flare thing is movie verse, where the crank has to touch you in some way to spread
> 
> **just so u know this chapter is NOT FINISHED, there are still two paragraphs or something that i dont know how to write, so if u want to wait til it does, don't read until i update again. i only posted this part because lina-who-so-graciouly-commented requested it**
> 
> other than that, enjoy XD

The Scorch was… not pleasant, to say the least.

Minho wanted to say it was better than the Maze, but it really wasn’t.  In fact, it may have been worse, with the constant threat of Crank and the pressure of having to get to the so-called “safe haven”, though never did Minho truly believe there was a safe haven, or a cure, for that matter.  But, just like in the Maze he hid the fact that it was unsolvable, in the Scorch he hid the fact there was no cure, there was never a cure and there was never going to be a cure.

So, basically they were all shucked.

Pain currently coursed through his body like electricity, tendrils of pain spiralling uncontrollably from a wound on his back, the burns of lightening barely bearable.  Across the room, he saw Newt and Thomas whispering at each other, occasionally sneaking glances at him, as though he was a monster they were afraid to disturb.  Minho wanted to tell them that he was fine, that they were all fine, but that would be the biggest shucking lie he could ever tell.  No, none of them were fine, not the Gladers, not the Group B participants, not the parents he couldn’t remember, not the Cranks that mindlessly roamed the world.

And then, movement.  Movement from the gaping hole in the roof, the hole that lead to the second and third and fourth floors.  Minho wanted to shout out a warning, but he didn’t have the time to; people –– not Cranks yet, still people –– swarmed down, catching the few Gladers by surprise and quickly surrounding them.  What happened next went by in a haze.  Minho couldn’t remember all that well, except that Thomas was taken away to make a deal.  Distrust blossomed in him, but it was not as though he could do anything.

Then finally, helplessness.  Would they kill Thomas?  Would they kill the Gladers?  Minho was supposed to be the shucking leader, and now they were all screwed because of him and his big mouth.

Hr didn’t deserve the title of leader.  It should have been Thomas instead of him to take on the role of Keeper, Alby instead of him to live, Newt instead of him to lead.

A tear slide down his cheek, dripping onto the ground and fading to nothingness.

Mirroring the last remnants of hope fading to nothingness.

 

* * *

 

Newt hated himself.

He saw as Minho slowly closed in on himself, how his face got darker with each passing day, how the light in his eyes slowly diminished until it died into a weak flicker.

And yet he did nothing, absolutely nothing, to help the boy.

It killed him to see the lifeless look in his eyes, the resigned slump in his posture, killed him to realise that it was only when Janson announced that Newt wasn’t immune that the first real emotion showed on Minho’s face since the Scorch, a spark of anger, fury, gleaming in his eye, with a fierce whisper of,  _ I won’t let it get to you _ and a hand tightening around his.  The realisation that Minho brought himself back from wherever his mind had been wandering for the last few weeks not for himself, but for Newt, that was what ultimately caused Newt to decide that he wanted to live, how foolish he had been to fling himself off the wall back in the Maze.  Only now did he see what it would do to his friends, to Minho.

But really, would that be enough?  Would that even help?  Simply resolving to live, he bet millions of people had done that and still died a Crank.  He bet millions of people had sworn to protect the ones they loved, only to die with their minds past the Gone, or else with a bullet through the head and a knife stuck through the chest.  What made him any different.

_ Minho _ , a little voice in his voice said,  _ Minho makes you different _ .

Newt spent a long time wondering if that was true.

 

* * *

 

Minho made it his personal goal to save Newt.  No matter what the cost.

He tried not to think about what would happen if his other friends objected with his new goal.  He wasn’t sure which side he would take in the end.  He didn’t want to think about it.

He didn’t want to know what his choice would be if it came to that.

So he focused on other things, on getting to the Right Arm and keeping Newt away from the outside world.  In a way he became obsessed, obsessed with keeping Newt to himself, obsessed with hiding Newt from the others.  And the suicide factor.  It had been years since Newt had shown any sign of wanting to… to end his life again, but Minho… Minho couldn’t be sure, didn’t want to take the chances, so he shielded Newt from everything else.  It wasn’t as though the other minded anyways; it was like he wanted it to be like this.  And he did want it to be this way, because just as Minho’s goal was to save Newt, Newt’s goal was to please Minho.

That was until Minho did what Newt deemed the unthinkable.

There was a Crank attack, and Newt was forced to partake in the fight, but with his limp and the sheer number of Crank overwhelming him, one of the Cranks managed to get very, very close to him, and Newt knew it was coming, knew that there was going to be a tearing of flesh and a pain coursing through his arm and the virus spreading through his veins, he could practically feel it, and he knew no matter what he did he wouldn’t be able to stop it, and so he closed his eyes and––

The blow never struck home.  He heard a pained, sickening screech and his eyes shot open, met with the sight of Minho writhing on the ground in front of him, eyelids twitching uncontrollably, limbs jerking wildly, a gaping wound across his chest.

Most of the other Cranks were down, demolished by the Gladers.  With a quick slice, Newt beheaded the Crank, but the damage had already been done.  Dropping to his knees, Newt tried to take a better look at the gash, but was pushed back by the other, who managed to choke out,

“D… Don’t, you’ll get the Flare.  Virus al… already i… in me.  Let immunes do it.”

_ Let immunes do it _ .  The knowledge that he was not immune had never hurt so much.  Because of his lack of immunity, Minho had gotten hurt.  Because of his lack of immunity, he could do nothing but watch the one he loved thrash on the ground in pain.  

Thomas had come over, was now trying his best to stitch up the injury, telling Minho to  _ hang on, don’t die on me you slinthead _ , to which he replied  _ you sound like a shucking idiot trying to speak Glade _ .  At least he still had his humor.

At long last, Thomas stood up, wiping off the blood onto his already grimy pants, and sighing in relief.  

“I think he should be good to go now.”  He said after a moment of consideration, admiring the rough stitches he had managed.  The whole time, Newt stood a few metres away, vigilant.  The whole time, Newt thought,  _ Will I never be able to touch them again? _  And another voice in his head replied,  _ Never _ .

And that thought crushed him.

 

* * *

 

As of late, Newt seemed… distant.

Minho refused to let Newt even get close to him, which seemed to be the root of the problem, but there were also little things the rest of the Gladers noticed.  How Newt’s eyes dimmed whenever the others gave him pitying looks, how his hair became more and more bleached, like a corpse, as though his body, and likely his mind too, had simply lost the desire to live.

It was not until Minho’s wound faded into nothing more than a white scar that he even allowed Newt to hold his hand.  Though he did nothing to express it, the others could tell how broken Newt was, how starved for touch.  They saw how he slowly began to laugh again, how he slowly began to partake in conversations once more.

Thomas clearly remembered that day.  Pain had shown in Newt’s eyes more boldly than normal, and because of that, the same pain was mirrored in Minho’s.  Thomas, who despised every moment watching the lovers being kept apart by paranoia, not to say that the paranoia was non evidential, nudged Minho and whispered,

“I think you should at least, you know, let him hold your hand or something.”

Minho adamantly refused, shaking his head firmly and listing all the reasons why he shouldn’t.  Thomas interrupted him with,

“If you don’t, I think he’ll kill himself.  Can’t you see him?  Can’t you see what he’s feeling?”

At the words  _ kill himself _ , Minho’s face visibly darkened.  Thomas, Thomas who had been in the Maze for less than two weeks, did not have the right to say such things.  He did not have the right to predict one’s death.  Though he knew it was irrational, Minho spun around and grabbed Thomas by his collar, like one of those cowboys in movies Minho couldn’t remember, and hissed through clenched teeth,

“Don’t talk about what you don’t know,  _ Greenie _ .”

Their little ordeal attracted attention, obviously, and the Gladers stopped to see what the commotion was all about.  Neither of the two involved in the fight seemed to have noticed.  And then Minho felt a hand wrap around his wrist, a pleading sound awakening him from the haze of anger.  

Newt.

Out of habit, he flinched away from Newt’s touch.  This, he realised too late, was a mistake, as he saw hurt pooling in Newt’s eyes and sadness clinging onto his lashes.  As if trying to undo what he had just done, Minho let go of Thomas reached out, justifying his action with a thought of  _ He’s touched me already, hasn’t he? _  Only when Newt collapsed into his embrace that Minho realised what Thomas had said had had more than just a note of truth in them.  Only then did Minho see that the lack of use on Newt’s part was killing the boy slowly; in the Maze he had been a Runner, useful.  Even after his… incident Newt had still be second-in-command, looked up to, respected.  Now, now with his limp and suicidal thoughts and susceptibility to the Flare, Newt faded.

Minho now saw, but like always, he saw too late.  He only hoped that he could change the misconception that hammered itself into Newt’s mind.

And Newt, Newt felt whole again.  Even if he wasn’t, not really, it felt like it was, and that was good enough for him.

 

* * *

 

Newt didn’t get The Flare.  Minho was relieved, beyond relieved, except now he had other things to worry about.

Like the fact that they were back in the Maze, the Maze they had spent two years trying to get out.  And now that they were back, the Right Arm had somehow managed to plant explosives and the Walls were crashing down on them.  And now that they were running towards the exit, the Grievers had started popping out of their little Griever pods and were probably going to kill them.  And now that they were at the Flat Trans the rocks were raining down on them, and Teresa –– the girl who led them out of the Maze –– was good as dead, 

Like the fact that Janson and his cronie had taken Thomas to cut his brains open and map them.

  
Yeah, just another everyday problem.

 

* * *

aaaand... cut

so thats all i have, and i have writers block, so i suppose u'll just have to deal.

sry

plaz send help, im dying slowly here

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... plz any suggestions for the last part??
> 
> PLZZZZZ


End file.
